The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(79)

“It’s not?” Bafflement flitted across the sergeant’s eyes.

“It’s definitely not your accent.”

His voice carried, and this time, Free did look up. Her eyebrows came down; her lips narrowed. She came half up from her seat, staring at him.

Edward spoke a little louder. “It’s the way you’re saying it. Didn’t you know? ‘Suffragette’ is pronounced with an exclamation point at the end. Like this: ‘Huzzah! Suffragettes!’”

Behind the sergeant, Free glowed. He could see the smile taking over her face, lighting her until he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her. It was the first thing he’d seen all day that had given him hope—hope that once she understood the lies he’d told, she might forgive him yet. That he might spend tonight in her arms, and tomorrow, and the day after.

“Huzzah,” the sergeant repeated in confusion. “Suffragettes?”

“That’s a question mark,” Edward said sharply. “Try it again: Suffragettes!”

“Suffragettes!”

“That’s it. You’ve got it!”

“Oh, excellent!” The sergeant smiled in pleasure—a pleasure that lasted only a few seconds. “My lord, why are we huzzahing suffragettes?”

“That requires a little more explanation.” He turned and extended his hand toward Free. “Bring that one here.”

There was a long pause. “If my lord insists.”

Free’s eyes widened, and Edward realized that this was the first time she’d noticed the sergeant calling him “my lord.” She glanced down, almost demurely—she’d have fooled him, except he knew there was nothing demure about her—and then looked up at him. She didn’t quite quirk an eyebrow; that would have been too obvious. Still, he could make out the words she didn’t say writ in her expression. Edward, what on earth are you playing at?

Edward kept his face fixed in an expression of bland, arrogant superiority. The sergeant nodded hastily. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He turned and clapped his hands. “You heard his lordship. Fetch that woman at once.”

“Gently!” Edward admonished.

His lordship? Free mouthed at him. The palms of his hands grew clammy, but he ignored her. A guard fumbled out a set of keys and motioned for Free to step forward.

“Let’s see,” the sergeant muttered, fluttering pages. “She’s number 107, and that makes her…ah, 105, 106, here she is. Miss Marshall.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you know nothing of, ah, my arrangement with your brother?”

Edward didn’t bother to answer that. She’d given her name as Marshall? She’d called herself Miss? He’d have raised his own eyebrow at her, except that it would ruin the patrician lines of his profile. And right now, he was too busy playing a role to do that.

Instead, he frowned and crossed his arms, glaring at the man in front of him. “Well, now you’ve done it again. That’s not how you pronounce her name. That’s not how you pronounce it at all.”

“Ah.” The sergeant frowned. “Um. Is it… Let me guess. Huzzah! Miss Marshall! With an exclamation point?”

“No,” Edward said. “It’s not Miss anything.”

Free seemed as surprised by this as the sergeant. She’d not remembered it, then. She’d given her maiden name the same way that one kept writing last year’s date well into February. For that matter, did suffragettes even change their name upon marriage? He’d have to ask Free. If she was still willing to talk to him after she realized what he’d done. Edward kept his attention firmly on the sergeant.

“Married, eh? Who’s the unlucky sod, then? One of your tenants, I suppose? Tell him he needs to do a better job of keeping her under his thumb. You should leave her with us for the night. Let us soften her up.”

Edward managed not to shiver at the thought.

“Nonsense.” Edward smiled grimly. “Now you’re mispronouncing everything, Sergeant. She’ll do better with me. As for her husband…” He savored every moment of the sergeant’s expression—the shift from confused to surprised to appalled, the blood draining out of his face. “Let me tell you how to pronounce her name. You say it like this: Lady Claridge. And I’m her husband.”

LADY CLARIDGE.

For a moment, Free’s world stood still. She felt very high up, her lungs unable to gasp for air. He couldn’t—she wasn’t—that thing Edward had said, it was entirely impossible. But then reality asserted itself, and she remembered the plan they’d sketched out together.

He’d been supposed to come up with a brief note of release—the sort with a muddle for a signature, one that wouldn’t be traceable.

He’d apparently changed tactics, and not for the better. A forged order of release from a harried bureaucrat was already pushing things. But this? This was an utter disaster. He might as well have waltzed into a bank and announced his intention to empty the vault.

But she could hardly argue with him in front of the sergeant. That would just get them both thrown back in that cell.

Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him, willing him to change his story. Did I say Lady Claridge? I misspoke. Clark. I meant Mrs. Clark. That’s what he needed to say next.

He kept silent, looking down his nose at the sergeant.